


Rewind

by khorazir



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Injury, Bullying, Demisexual Sherlock Holmes, Don't copy to another site, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Inexperienced Sherlock Holmes, Kid Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Magical Realism, Mycroft is a good brother, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parentlock (mentioned), Post-Season/Series 04, Redbeard dies, TFP Does Not Exist, Time Travel Fix-It, redbeard is a dog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 01:41:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30081552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/pseuds/khorazir
Summary: When Sherlock is six years old, he finds out that strange things happen when the mole on his neck is touched under certain circumstances: it switches him back in time. Over the years, he discovers both the advantages and disadvantages of being thus granted a way to relive certain events, to reconsider decisions and remedy mistakes – until an accidental touch sends him back to Barts morgue on 29th January 2010, thus undoing eight years of acquaintance with John Watson. Is this a most unfortunate incident, a curse, even? Or is it indeed a second chance to finally shape his relationship with John the way it should have been from the beginning?
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson (mentioned), Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & OMC, Sherlock Holmes & Victor Trevor, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 64





	Rewind

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a comment made by gardnerhill on one of my drawings. Thank you very much for the plot bunny and for letting me run with this idea. This story (at least the first chapter) is a bit darker than my usual fics, so please heed the tags and proceed with caution. No bad things happen between Sherlock and John (apart from what’s in the show), and there will be a happy ending.
> 
> A big thank you goes to gardnerhill for the inspiration, and to rifleman_s, as usual, for betaing.

It hasn’t happened in such a long time so that when it does, entirely by accident, Sherlock is wholly unprepared and, shortly afterwards, somewhat resentful about it. Things with John had been improving – finally, slowly, oh so very slowly. But there had been improvement at last after all the hurt they’d caused each other. There was talking, therapy, more talking, John moving back to Baker Street with Rosie. It’d been hard work for both of them – emotional labour mostly, which Sherlock loathes, and John is still particularly bad at, despite regular sessions with Ella and another therapist specialising in treating war veterans.

But John and Sherlock had been growing closer again, incrementally. There’d even been days when their old dynamic, the one before the Fall, had almost been back, days when John had laughed and smiled and teased Sherlock and complained about inappropriate things in the fridge (although there were far fewer of those now because of Rosie), when he’d cooked the thing with peas, and they’d eaten together. He’d even accompanied Sherlock on cases more, running being him and tackling criminals and giggling at crime scenes. Sherlock had loved seeing his old John surface more and more behind the wall of hurt and self-loathing John had surrounded himself with, like light breaking through gaps in heavy clouds. He’d loved every moment of it. And even though he’d never imagined himself raising a child, there he’d been with John looking after Rosie, who called him _Lock_ and, sometimes – and Sherlock treasures these moments most of all, a sentiment still inexplicable to him – _Da_.

Gone. All of this is gone now because of one fleeting, careless touch. Because Sherlock didn’t react fast enough and stop John’s hand when he was checking a bruise on his throat, because he didn’t anticipate that it could happen again when it hadn’t for so many years. To quote John, _bloody fucking hell._

As suddenly, Sherlock finds himself standing in Barts lab, dressed in the black velvet jacket he hasn’t worn in ages and a shirt much tighter than he is used to nowadays, his hair longer and fluffier than he remembers, his body thinner and filled with a nervous energy that age, injuries and years of acquaintance with John Watson and everything they went through together have tempered somewhat, when the initial disorientation, dizziness and nausea have abated and he has steadied himself against the table, he can’t help shaking his head and laughing hoarsely out of sheer shock.

 _Barts laboratory, 29th January 2010._ He glances at his watch – the one that has been/will be taken from him in Serbia. It has been reset along with everything else. _Yep, even the time is right: early afternoon, shortly after lunch break. Of all times and places, it had to be this one, hadn’t it?_ He’s never been able to tell where and especially when he’d end up. There doesn’t seem to be a law for it, or at least he never managed to determine one when he was still eager to experiment with his ... condition.

Actually, this is unusual. No, it’s unprecedented. The reset has never encompassed entire years before, much less so many. Sherlock has no knowledge or prior experience to fall back on. Those times the switch back happened before, it’s been a few minutes, more rarely hours, and once, in Serbia, a little more than two days. _Perhaps it gets longer the older you are,_ he muses. _Perhaps the longer you live, the further back you can be reset._

And this instance now ... it’s still difficult to wrap his head around what happened. Everything feels strange, almost wrong, and yet incredibly familiar all at once. The reset has undone eight years of Sherlock’s life. All the time he’s ever spent with John Watson – gone. His life with John only exists in his memory now. It’s cruel. Unlike previous resets, it doesn’t feel like a second chance. And yet ... it must be. There _must_ be a reason for it. In the past, a reset has always meant a chance to improve a situation, to rectify a mistake, more than once to save his life. But has meeting John been a mistake? Some people might say so. Sherlock shakes his head, banishing the very notion. Despite all hurt and hardship, those years Sherlock has been associated with John Watson have been the best of his life.

Sherlock isn’t suspicious or religious. He is a scientist. And yet ... why has he been cast back here and now, to this particular, auspicious date? Coincidence? He hears his brother’s voice in his mind about the laziness of the universe – his brother who usually knows all the answers but never found anything helpful pertaining to Sherlock’s condition. Sherlock isn’t even sure whether Mycroft fully believed him when he told him about it. At some point, he probably thought the drugs were talking because he so vehemently insisted on Sherlock undergoing rehab and seeing out a shrink. The rehab worked, therapy didn’t. Because there is nothing wrong with Sherlock’s mind. There might be something wrong with his temporal ... whatever ... manifestation. Or continuity. He hasn’t even got a term for it that makes sense. He can barely make his rational mind comprehend what keeps happening to him and has yet to find out why it does. So why on earth would Mycroft or anybody else believe him, even if he can prove he is neither high nor crazy? Being able to jump back in time ... not a usual condition.

Footsteps echo on the corridor, tearing him out of his musings. He feels his heartbeat accelerate. He knows who’s coming, who is about to step through the door. He can hear the click of the walking stick, the limp, Mike Stamford’s heavier, measured tread. _If anybody has earned a second chance, it’s us,_ thinks Sherlock as he gazes towards the door. His hands are sweaty of a sudden. He feels faint again. _Not used to the nicotine patches anymore, are you? And when’s the last time this younger, more jittery and less well-kept version of you has last eaten? At least Molly should be arriving with sugared coffee soon._

He wipes his hands on his trousers – more loose-fitting than he is used to. His throat is tight and constricted, his heart is hammering in his chest. John won’t remember him. He’s going to see Sherlock for the first time in a few moments. But Sherlock remembers. He remembers everything about John. It’s stored in his mind palace, safe from deletion however often he is switched back

The door opens. Mike Stamford steps through. Sherlock leans over the microscope on the table, closes his eyes for a moment and draws a shaky breath which he releases slowly.

“Bit different from my day,” says John, and Sherlock’s heart skips a beat at the sound of the beloved voice.

He feels the corners of his mouth twitch in a smile. The game is on.

**– <o>–**

Sherlock is six when it happens for the first time – or rather, this is the first time he actively remembers it happening.

It’s the Easter holidays and Sherlock’s parents have taken him and Mycroft to visit their grandparents at their house in Sussex. Sherlock loves it there. The village the cottage is situated in is close to the coast. The countryside is just the right mixture of rugged wilderness with its copses and hedgerows, pastures and marshes, gravel pits and ponds, and tamed, orderly village greens, orchards and gardens.

His grandparents’ garden is beautiful all year round, but particularly in spring. Now in early April the grass is lush and green and dotted with lady’s smock and dandelions. The apple-trees are almost in flower, their white and pink buds about to open any day now. Bees are out and about, and butterflies. The tadpoles in the ditch behind the cottage have already grown little hindlegs. Sherlock wants to go and see them. He wants to run along the narrow, grassy path to the crumbling chalk-cliffs and climb down the steep wooden steps to the beach to hunt for seashells and fossils. But the weather has been cold and windy. Heavy clouds threatening rain are moving in from the sea, and so Sherlock has been confined to the garden with a strong warning not to leave. He has already found all the Easter eggs and chocolate bunnies his parents and grandparents have hidden, even the ones in the more challenging hiding places. He has been told to return to the house because of the worsening weather but managed to bribe Mycroft into letting him stay outside to play with Redbeard a little longer by giving him all of his Cadbury’s eggs.

The sea is calling to him. Gulls are sailing on the stiff breeze that is moaning and rushing in the trees and sending a flurry of cherry-blossom over the hedge that surrounds the garden. But granddad locked the gate in the high, wall-like privets, and try as he might, Sherlock doesn’t manage to pick the lock. The hole in the hedge the fox made last year has been boarded up as well, and moreover Sherlock has grown too much to squeeze through. The shed is locked, too, so he can’t fetch the stepladder, which is a little too heavy for him to carry on his own, anyway.

There is, however, the tall ash tree growing next to the hedge. And tied to one of its branches is the swing. Sherlock is small and nimble and strong despite being so skinny, and he’s an excellent climber. If he can make his way up the rope onto the branch, he can surely climb to the other side of the tree where it reaches over the hedge and lower himself to the ground from one of the thinner branches, using his own bodyweight to bend the branch to the ground. It’s a good plan, the only flaw being that he won’t be able to take Redbeard with him. The dog is watching him patiently. Sherlock apologises to him and promises to take him to the beach the next day when hopefully, the weather will be nicer. Redbeard barks, which Sherlock takes as his approval.

The ash creaks and sways as he climbs onto the swing. Some of last year’s dry seedpods rain down on him, as well as some small twigs. He casts a last glance towards the cottage half hidden by apple-trees. It’s not long after lunch, so he won’t be missed for a while – as long as Mycroft keeps their bargain and doesn’t inform on him. No sign of life from the cottage. Good.

He begins to climb. It’s harder than he thought because the rope is slippery from last night’s rain. He smears his clothes with the green algae that grow on the hemp. The branch, too, is wet and covered in moss and several kinds of lichen. Sherlock heaves himself onto it, waving down at Redbeard who yaps and barks at him. The tree shudders with another gust of wind. Sherlock clings to the branch and begins to push himself forward towards the grey trunk. Redbeard’s barking grows louder. Sherlock hisses at him, tells him to calm down or he’ll alert the adults. But the dog seems nervous, running around the trunk, jumping up and down, and barking at Sherlock. The boy tries to ignore it and concentrate on edging forward. It’s tricky. The slippery bark offers less grip than he had hoped for, and the closer he gets to the trunk, the thicker the branch becomes, and the more difficult it gets for Sherlock to maintain a firm hold with his short arms and small hands.

The ash creaks and sways. Later, Sherlock doesn’t really recall what happens. He only remembers a loud crack, a scream like the hoarse cries of the gulls, and Redbeard’s desperate barking. A thud, too, and pain, lots and lots of pain ... everywhere. Sky with racing clouds above him, drops of rain and white snowflakes settling down on his face ... no, not snowflakes, cherry-blossom petals. Something cool and moist under him, the smell of earth and wet dog and then a flurry of reddish brown in his line of vision and a wet nose touching his cheek. Something warm on the back on his head, and a strange feeling of heaviness as if his limbs are made of lead. He can’t move ... anything, apart from his eyes which follow Redbeard’s frantic movements around his body, sniffing, pawing at him, nudging Sherlock with his wet nose. That’s when the pain gets really bad. Sherlock groans, tears shooting into his eyes. This isn’t good. Why can’t he move? And why can’t he breathe without his lungs feeling as though someone is stabbing them? What’s that warm stuff in his hair? Why are the sounds so strange? What happened? He wants to call out but feels he can’t. Breathing hurts so very much. At least Redbeard is here. He sniffs at Sherlock’s face and throat, making strange, whimpering sounds Sherlock has never heard from him before. That’s when he becomes afraid, _really_ afraid. Redbeard knows when something bad has happened. Sherlock feels the tears begin to run from the corners of his eyes. Redbeard comes and licks at him, licks Sherlock’s face as if to reassure him. He nudges Sherlock’s cheek with his nose again, then his throat and—

**> o<**

“You’ll promise to stay in the garden with Redbeard?” says Mycroft, holding out his hand for the Cadbury’s eggs.

Sherlock stares at the eggs in his hands, then up at his brother, then back at the eggs. Next to him, Redbeard is chewing on a twig.

“Sherlock?” prompts Mycroft impatiently. “It’s going to rain soon, and I’d like to go inside and beat granddad at chess.”

Sherlock still stares at him. The pain is gone. He can move. There are no tears on his face, no green stains on his clothes.

Mycroft’s expression morphs into a frown, before something like genuine concern settles on his freckled face. “Sherlock, what’s wrong with you? You’re white as a sheet. Are you feeling sick? Eaten too much chocolate already?”

Sherlock shakes his head. He turns to glance at the ash tree. The swing is swaying in the wind, but there is no sign underneath it of a boy having fallen from a considerable height and crashing onto the grass. He drops the chocolate eggs onto the ground and reaches up with both hands to touch his face and hair. No sign of an injury – because that’s what the warm stuff he felt just a moment earlier must have been: blood. He fell off the tree and hurt himself, badly.

And now he’s here again with Mycroft, reliving a moment from earlier. How do they call it? When one thinks one has experienced an event before? A French word, isn’t it? Or has he hit his head so hard he’s lost consciousness? Is he in a coma now? Or dead? Sherlock doesn’t believe in heaven or hell. But perhaps there is an afterlife. It’s not too bad if Redbeard is there, being his happy self. And Mycroft ... well ... he has his uses, too, and can be a good big brother occasionally, although he has clearly become more insufferable now that he has left home and gone to that posh school with the poncy jackets and the silly hats.

Still, this is uncanny. Sherlock hates not knowing things. It scares him, sometimes, as do the many impressions deluging him all the time and which he can’t all sort through and categorise. He gets overwhelmed easily, needs time on his own to deal with this overload. And this is even worse. Something strange has happened and Sherlock can’t explain it.

“Am I dead, Mycroft?” asks Sherlock in a small voice. He has begun to tremble slightly. He loathes not having the answer himself. But Mycroft is smart. He knows so many things Sherlock doesn’t.

Mycroft’s face makes a funny expression. “Why do you ask, Sherlock?” He looks concerned.

“Because just now, I fell off that tree – yes, I tried to leave the garden, even though I promised. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I fell off the tree and I couldn’t move, and everything hurt, and I think there was blood, and Redbeard was there sniffing me and licking and ... and then I was here again. With you. And ... and the ... the eggs.” He points at them as they lie scattered in the grass. “The eggs I’d given you before.”

Mycroft’s frown deepens. “What do you mean ... you were here _again_?”

Sherlock runs both hands through his wild curls. The trembling has intensified. Redbeard trots over, licks his hand. It helps a little. Sherlock doesn’t understand what’s happening. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not logical in the slightest. It scares him when things aren’t logical, when he doesn’t have an explanation for every little detail of his surroundings.

He stares at Mycroft, who looks definitely worried now. “Am I dead, Myc? Or crazy? Is something wrong with my head? I was here before. We both were, and I gave you the eggs, and I promised, and you left to play chess with grandpa. And then ...” he swallows, waves at the swing and the tree behind him. “And then I broke my promise and tried to climb up the swing and over the tree to get to the beach. And I fell. And I lay on the ground and there was so much pain. And blood. I think there was blood, too, and Redbeard was there, and then suddenly ... suddenly I was here again, with you. I don’t understand, Myc,” he wails. “I don’t understand.”

Mycroft reaches out hesitantly. They don’t touch, usually. But now Mycroft places a hand on Sherlock’s trembling shoulder. Picking up one of the chocolate eggs, he holds it out to Sherlock. “There must be an explanation, Sherlock,” says Mycroft slowly but calmly. Sherlock takes the egg. It feels smooth and cool in his hand.

“There always is an explanation, little brother. Think. What exactly happened? And no, you’re neither dead nor crazy. You could be having a déjà vu, or perhaps you simply imagined what would have happened had you tried to climb the tree in this weather. Your imagination tends to be a little ... overactive at times. You must learn to control it better.”

“But I didn’t imagine it,” insists Sherlock. “I fell. It hurt. I was afraid. And then ... it’s like everything was switched back. And nobody remembers, only me. I was switched back, too, because the blood is gone and the pain, but I still know what happened the first time.”

Mycroft gazes at him with a strange expression. “Interesting,” he says thoughtfully. “I’ll look into the matter. But don’t tell anybody else yet, okay?”

Sherlock quickly shakes his head. “I’ll only tell Redbeard. You won’t tell Mummy and Father either, will you?”

“I won’t. How do you think you were ... switched back?”

“I don’t know. I lay there and couldn’t move, and I was crying, and Redbeard was licking my face and sniffing at my neck and then ...” He gestures to imply the change.

“Perhaps you should repeat the experiment,” suggests Mycroft. Sherlock loves him in that moment, truly and deeply, almost as much as he loves experimenting. Experimenting is science, and science is safe and rational and true.

“I don’t want to fall off the tree again,” he says.

Mycroft shakes his head and laughs. “Not that bit, you fish. Lie down and have Redbeard lick your face. He does it all the time anyway.”

Sherlock lies down in the wet grass, sits up again to hand a chocolate egg that has dug into his shoulder to Mycroft, before lying down again. Redbeard gazes at him, nudges him with his nose. Sherlock points at his face and throat. “Lick, Redbeard,” he commands. The dog gazes at him. Sherlock reaches up to cuddle him. Redbeard licks his face, making Sherlock giggle. There is no switching, however.

They try out of a few things, having Redbeard lick or touch parts of Sherlock’s body, but nothing happens. Eventually, when the rain gets stronger, they pick up the remaining Cadbury’s eggs and retreat inside. Mycroft keeps his word and doesn’t tell anybody, neither does Sherlock. He thinks of his fall, though. After a while, the memories begin to fade, like a dream after waking. He does dream of the event, though, constantly for a week or so. It’s not really a nightmare, just a recurring dream.

Two days after his fall and the switch – or _reset_ , as he’s come to call it – he falls off the swing and breaks his arm. It hurts and he has to wear a hateful cast for three weeks afterwards. And it’s weird and almost funny that it should have happened on the same swing under the same tree where he fell the first time. It’s only that the injury is far less serious now. Sherlock tries not to think about it too much, but deep down he knows that without the reset, he might be dead now or at least severely incapacitated, perhaps in a wheelchair. _It’s almost,_ thinks Sherlock, _like a second chance._

He tells Mycroft about it, asks him if he believes that it could have been a coincidence. He still isn’t entirely sure whether Mycroft really believes him. If he doesn’t, he hides it well, though. He doesn’t make any disparaging comments or implies that Sherlock is out of his mind. He only listens and nods and looks at him gravely.

“The universe is rarely so lazy,” he says at length, sounding and looking much older and wiser than his thirteen years. “There is no such thing as a coincidence. Everything is linked. And who knows, perhaps you were really given a second chance.”

Sherlock gazes at him with large eyes. “But how, Myc? How?”

“You’re good at investigating and finding out things,” says Mycroft earnestly. “So investigate, then.”

Sherlock does – or tries to, at least. But he has very little to go on. Was it something Redbeard did? Or he himself? Did he fall on a particular spot in the garden where there’s a portal or something? The memory of the event fades more and more as spring advances. The dreams about the fall stop, too. Life goes on. Mycroft returns to his posh school and Sherlock is often lonely. The other children at his school don’t like him, and he doesn’t like them, either, because they’re idiots. He reads a lot. He tries to find out everything he can about time travel and déjà vues and quantum theory. His parents think this interest is a little too advanced for his age, but Mummy indulges him nevertheless and gives him the books he asks for. He experiments some more, sometimes alone, sometimes with Redbeard’s help, letting him lick his face, but no switching or resetting occurs, and so eventually, he stops thinking about it.

**– <o>–**

That is until two years later when Redbeard dies. Somehow, he manages to escape from the Holmes’ garden, runs onto the street and is hit by a car. Father finds him. Sherlock stands in the shed where his body has been brought, gazing at his beloved dog through tear-filled eyes and wishes and wishes and wishes that he could be switched back to earlier in the day when he left for school and probably did not lock the gate properly. He knows it’s his fault. He knows it, and it hurts so much. Redbeard doesn’t have any visible injuries. Father said the impact must have broken his neck and that he died instantly and without suffering. But that’s little solace. Sherlock is convinced that without his negligence, Redbeard would still be alive.

Too distraught to stay and help Father bury him, he runs away. He gets as far as the post-office down the road where a group of older boys from his school are loitering on their BMX-bikes, eating cherries from a paper-bag and spitting the stones at passing cars and pedestrians. Sherlock tries to hide, but they spot him and cycle close. Normally, he only encountered them in the company of Redbeard, who would bark and keep them at bay. Now, he is on his own, and the thoughts of Redbeard lying in the shed or perhaps having been buried in the cold earth now make his eyes well up yet again.

Of course, the other boys notice both the absence of the dog and Sherlock’s puffy, tear-stained face. One makes a remark about Redbeard, the other claims he has heard about a dog running wild in the area and his brother almost hitting it with his moped. Sherlock tries to ignore both their taunts and the cherry stones flying in his direction. That is until one of the boys – the big one with the violent father, the leaky pen and the baseball cap he nicked from his brother – laughs and says that the moped-rider should have accelerated more run over the dog.

Sherlock sees red. He cries out and launches himself at the older, larger and stronger boy, knocking him off his BMX onto the pavement and boxing him in the ribs as hard as he can. Cherry-stained hands grab him and pull him back. Somebody tears on his curls, another cuffs him into the stomach, and a third grabs his neck and—

**> o<**

“Sherlock, dear, hurry or you’ll be late for school again.” Mummy’s voice startles him, and he spills milk from the glass he is holding over his hand and the cuff of his school uniform jacket. He feels dizzy and slightly nauseous.

“Oh Sherlock, do be more careful with your milk,” chides Mummy. “Your other jacket is in the laundry. What’s the matter with you this morning? You have been sitting there staring into space for almost a minute now. Hurry up. Redbeard, no. You know perfectly well that you won’t get anything from the table.”

Sherlock releases a shaky breath, carefully puts down his glass, before turning towards Redbeard who sits next to him and gazes up at him with large brown eyes, wagging his tail hopefully. He’s alive and unhurt. Sherlock lets out a small sob and bends down to hug him, silently thanking whatever is responsible for the reset for granting him his dearest wish. Redbeard is alive and all is well.

He locks the gate very conscientiously, even runs back to check whether it’s really, really closed. Redbeard yaps at him from behind the fence. Sherlock waves at him and runs to school. All morning and early afternoon he sits as though on hot coals, fidgeting even more and paying even less attention to the teachers and lessons than usual. He’s worried that when he returns, Redbeard will have found another way of escaping the garden and get himself hurt. Also, the question how it was possible for Sherlock to have been reset again burns in his mind. It bugs him to no end that he can’t think of an answer.

As soon as the bell rings, he dashes home, dread twisting his guts. What if somebody else left the gate open? The postwoman, perhaps, or the milkman? What if something else happened to Redbeard? But no: as every day before, there he is behind the fence, barking joyfully and running alongside Sherlock, who sprints through the gate and hugs him fiercely, holding him for several minutes until Redbeard begins to squirm.

In the evening, when Sherlock is in bed and has managed to smuggle Redbeard into his room to lie on his duvet, he thinks about what happened earlier, absently stroking the dark-red fur.

“It must be something on me that causes the reset,” he muses aloud.

Redbeard pricks up his ears, gazes at him, makes a sound almost like a question – Sherlock is convinced Redbeard understands everything he says because he’s the most intelligent dog ever – before settling down again.

“It can’t have been the ground at Granny’s cottage because now it’s happened here, too. And it happened ...,” he thinks carefully. “It happened when that boy with the blond hair and the snotty nose grabbed my neck from behind. That’s when I was switched back.”

Careful not to dislodge the content dog, he slips out of bed and fetches a notebook and pencil, as well as a mirror. Studying his reflection, he turns his head this way and that, carefully running his free hand over his throat. There are a few moles there, most prominently one next to his Adam’s apple on the right side of his throat. Could this be the one? But how does it work? He touches it, bracing himself for a switch or reset – anything, really. But nothing happens. The skin is tender there. Sherlock can feel his pulse strongly when he presses his fingers to the spot. But there’s no switch, no feeling of déjà vu, no ‘temporal displacement’, as was mentioned in some of the books he read.

He tries out some of the other moles and freckles on his neck and presses his nose and ears for good measure. Perhaps he’s got something like a switch on him, a button that when pressed in the right way sends him back in time. But if there is, he doesn’t find it. Or perhaps it simply doesn’t work when he presses it himself. Perhaps someone else has to do it. Or perhaps he needs to be agitated or upset or frightened. Perhaps the two resets that happened where rather because of him being highly emotional – something he has been struggling to suppress and control ever since Mycroft told him that it’s better to not let one’s feelings show too much – than because of somebody pressing a freckle on his neck.

He jots down these thoughts in his notebook, vows to conduct a more scientific study later on, yawns, pets Redbeard for a bit, and falls asleep.

**– <o>–**

About half a year later, Redbeard has to be put down because the cancer has got so bad. Somehow, Sherlock knew all along that his beloved friend had been living on bought time. He makes sure Redbeard has the best life possible when the cancer is first diagnosed. They’re even more inseparable than before. Even though he is deeply saddened by the impending loss, Sherlock can accept it better now. He gets to say farewell. Redbeard isn’t snatched from him by some accident. He accompanies him to the vet when his time has come and stays with him until he falls asleep, and he helps Father bury him in the garden.

When Mycroft returns from school for the half-term break, they stand together at Redbeard’s grave. Sherlock cries a little, and then tells Mycroft about the second switch.

“Do you think there’s something wrong with me?” he asks his brother. “All the other children seem to think so. They call me names.”

“Don’t listen to them, Sherlock,” says Mycroft. “They don’t understand. You’re special. You’re so much smarter than them, and it makes them jealous. And apparently, you have this very particular and probably unprecedented power to revisit and even slightly alter events in your timeline. Just ignore them.”

Sherlock wants to tell him that he’s tried, and it doesn’t work, and also that often, especially now that Redbeard is gone and Mycroft isn’t around most of the time, he feels incredible lonely without anybody to talk to, without a true friend. He stares at the grave, hangs his head and nods. Perhaps he is a freak, like the other children say. Perhaps being alone is his lot in life. Perhaps he’d better get used to it, then.

**– <o>–**

His status as a freak and loner continues and solidifies when he changes schools and is sent to Harrow from which Mycroft has just graduated as celebrated Head Boy. He doesn’t get along with the other boys – posh, snotty, pretentious brats, most of them – and he doesn’t want to. After some initial bullying from his fellow housemates and retaliation from his side, they mostly leave him in peace, fearful of his sharp deductions and cutting remarks exposing their deepest secrets, a skill he has honed to a fine art.

Sherlock tells himself he doesn’t need friends. Mycroft seems to be doing well without them, too. Sherlock knows he is different, special even. He can see things other don’t – and not in a creepy way. He just looks at people and his surroundings and takes in far more information than ordinary people. And what he sees tells him secrets. When he is twelve, he is convinced he has discovered a murder where the police think it was a mere accident – a boy drowning at a swimming competition. Sherlock makes a fuss, calls and writes to the Police and the local newspaper, but nobody believes him. He knows he’s been right, though.

He celebrates his otherness, taking ballet and violin lessons when other boys his age play football and hang out in the park. At Harrow, he spends long hours in the library, reading about obscure but fascinating subjects such as the different types of soil in London and the city’s hidden rivers and waterways, about bees and beekeeping, about Elizabethan bricks and Victorian arsenic wallpapers. He excels at chemistry, music, languages, and, which gains him some grudging admiration from his peers, fencing.

When, much to his dismay, puberty strikes, messing with his hormones and threatening to upset the tight control he has established on his emotions with unwanted urges, he tells himself firmly he doesn’t need all that, either. The desire for relationships, sex, love ... he sees what it does to the other boys – some lusting after absent girls, others engaging in what they believe are clandestine activities with one another in the showers or dormitories. After some initial confusion and a few soiled sheets at night, Sherlock finds that it isn’t difficult for him to disregard his hormonal urges. He can look after his own needs when they get too pressing and can otherwise ignore his libido quite well as long as his mind is occupied. He isn’t interested in girls in the slightest, and those few boys who pique his brief and passing interest do so because they’re smart or kind or both. He doesn’t want to engage in anything physical with them, though, and is actively relieved that nobody attempts the same with him. He concludes that he might be gay or something along those lines – in theory rather than in practice – and that he doesn’t really care about finding a label for himself. Nor is he eager to upset the equilibrium by allowing messy physicality or worse, sentiment and the whims and desires of others into his life.

Interestingly, resets happen fairly frequently during his time at Harrow: twice during sports (a scuffle with some other boys, one of whom grabs his neck again and once after being hit in the neck by a ball), once in the early days when he runs away from school because the bullying has got too bad and he gets stung by a bee while waiting for a train to take him to London, once in the chemistry lab after he has managed to almost blow himself up and someone touches his throat to search for a heartbeat, and once, interestingly, when he is in his final year, tries to shave for the first time and cuts himself with the blade.

Each reset is very brief, a few minutes or even seconds only – enough for him to remedy what caused the most damage, but not enough to change the overall chain of events. The occurrences do give him enough information to form some theories about his condition, and to determine which combination of events has the potential of bringing about a reset and which doesn’t.

  1. It appears that the mole next to his Adam’s apple is indeed the sensitive spot. When it is touched under very special conditions, a reset is likely to happen.
  2. This seems to only work with this one mole and none of the other freckles on his body, although due to lack of thorough experimentation, this theory is inconclusive.
  3. No reset happens when he himself touches the mole – the shaving incident aside, although here he didn’t touch it with his fingers but cut it – nor does it seem to work when he is aware of imminent touching by somebody else.
  4. Heightened emotion seems to play a part as well: probably it’s the level of adrenaline in his blood that’s responsible. Strong emotions such as fear, grief and anger make a reset more likely, as does pain. He hasn’t experienced a reset linked to strong positive emotions yet.
  5. The length of the time varies. The longest periods so have been those hours he was switched back in order to prevent Redbeard being hit by the car. No subsequent reset has ever been this long again. Sherlock isn’t certain whether this was due to the strength of emotion he felt back then, but believes it was. Therefore, there is some vague evidence that the length of time of a reset could be linked to the force of sentiment experienced, but it’s not conclusive yet.
  6. Even when he actively changes things to avoid what led to reset, reality has a way of returning to that point eventually, meaning he can’t really change his past to change his future, but he does seem get opportunities for minor adjustments to make things less painful for himself or others. Most of the time, he is grateful for these chances.



**– <o>–**

The first time he comes to partly regret a reset is at Cambridge. Sherlock is reading chemistry and enjoying it, tentatively considering specialising in forensics eventually. He still doesn’t care much for his fellow students, but at least the labs are well equipped, the lectures interesting and sometimes even a bit challenging, and the professors aren’t total morons, most of them.

Also, there’s Victor. He’s a year or so older than Sherlock and studying at the same college. They meet by accident, literally. Victor has a small dog that, running free, trips Sherlock as he is cycling across Jesus Green. He falls, Victor helps him up. Sherlock wants to be angry and ... isn’t. Victor apologises profusely, they start talking, Sherlock discovers that he is smart and has a wry sense of humour he finds appealing. His looks aren’t too bad either, particularly his dark eyes. In the following days, they run across each other frequently. Even though they don’t share any lectures, Victor happens to be at the library when Sherlock is there, or at Fitzbillies to buy cake, or at Heffers to look for books. Sherlock, who stopped believing in coincidence long ago, can’t help suspecting that Victor is doing this on purpose. He finds he doesn’t mind as much as he probably should.

When they run into each other again, he confronts the other with his theory. Victor blushes, which looks good on his brown skin (his mother’s family hails from India), and admits that he has been worrying about Sherlock and wanted to apologise properly for the dog incident. He also asks if Sherlock would like to have coffee with him. Sherlock agrees. When Victor flashes him a bright smile, he excuses himself and flees around the corner of the next building pretending to fetch his bicycle but in reality, having a moment of mild panic that he has just agreed to a date and has no idea what to do and moreover whether he really wants this.

They do have coffee that day, and it’s okay. Actually, it’s rather nice. Conversation runs freely and more easily than Sherlock anticipated, and when Victor asks if he’d like to repeat the coffee drinking and talking the next day, he says yes. Regular coffee meetings lead to hanging out at the library studying together, which lead to cycling to Ely together to visit the cathedral, which lead to Sherlock accompanying Victor to a party, which leads to him drinking more alcohol than he is used to (which is basically less than half a glass of wine), which leads to Victor kissing him in the garden of the party house under the large buddleia and Sherlock, to his genuine shock and surprise, kissing back. While Sherlock is debating whether he truly likes the kissing and the fact that one of Victor’s hands is sliding down his back towards his arse, while the other is caressing his cheek and throat, Victor’s fingers brush over the mole and—

**> o<**

Sherlock is sitting on the toilet at the party house, feeling a bit woozy which is both due to the reset and the unprecedented amount of alcohol he has drunk. Somebody bangs on the door and Sherlock shouts at them to piss off. He pulls himself up from the closed toilet seat to gaze at his reflection in the mirror, carefully running his fingers over his lips, thinking he can still feel the pressure and texture of Victor’s lips and the slick slide of his tongue, as well as tasting the wine he’d drunk previously. His lips show no signs of kissing, however, nor does his hair retain any evidence of Victor running his hand through the curls. Sherlock is torn between resentment that he was snatched away from the kiss and a sense of foreboding. In the past, the resets always meant that something was wrong and in need of rectification. What has been wrong about the kiss, then? It was shocking and rather overwhelming in its intensity, for sure. Sherlock never anticipated such a strong reaction in himself, having so far disdained intimacy as something only other people needed. But the alcohol helped overcome Sherlock’s reluctance to engage in physical closeness. And he likes Victor. He’s the first real (human) friend he’s ever had. So why the reset? Was it just an accident, a combination of Victor touching the dratted mole and the adrenaline coursing through Sherlock’s veins? Sherlock doesn’t believe in fate or anything like it. He is a scientist. But the evidence of past resets indicates that something needs a subtle tweak to make things ... right, if that’s the correct term.

Quickly washing and drying his hands, he leaves the loo to find Victor. As before the switch, he finds him in the kitchen. But this time, Victor is in conversation with Sebastian Wilkes and two of his friends, talking animatedly. Something about the situation feels ... off. Sherlock doesn’t like Sebastian, who is a pretentious arse. His cronies are even worse. They’re exactly the kind of rich, spoilt, obnoxious prats who made Sherlock’s life unpleasant at Harrow and continue to do so here at University, causing him to feel out of place and odd and freakish at every possible opportunity. To see Victor stand with them, chatting and laughing sends his alarm bells tingling. Slowly, he approaches, careful to stay out of their direct line of sight by hiding behind the doorframe.

“I can’t believe you managed to actually drag him here, Vic,” says one of Wilkes’ friends _(reads law, parents own a country estate, has a betting problem, recently crashed his car)_ , slapping Victor’s shoulder. “Have you watched him? He’s like a fish out of water, the freak.”

“Are you going to get him drunk?” says the other _(also reads law, cheats on his girlfriend with – oh, interesting – the other bloke ... now that’s new)_. “There’s other stuff on offer round here, too, in case you need something stronger. Remember, it only counts when you kiss him.”

Victor shakes his head and reaches up to brush the other’s hand off his shoulder. He looks ... Sherlock isn’t sure. Tired, somehow. Resigned. “You’re sick, Edward, you know that? He’s not a freak.”

The three others laugh and clink their glasses together. “Hear, hear. And yet you agreed to our deal,” says Sebastian. “What does that say about you, Vic, eh? But then, money is a strong motivator, isn’t it? Pity about your father’s business. You’re not really falling for him, are you, Vic?”

Victor’s face does something strange. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters.

Sherlock feels his blood run cold. Now everything makes sense. Of course, it wasn’t real, of course. How could he have been so stupid? Of course, Victor isn’t really interested in him romantically. It’s all part of some sick deal, a game. Victor needs money, the other three, particularly Wilkes, want to see Sherlock humiliated, perhaps even his heart broken because Sherlock has deduced some awkward truths about him before and was unwise to reveal them. Kiss the Freak – is this their game? Now he understands the reset, and he is grateful. Oh, the heartbreak is real. He liked Victor. And the kiss, overwhelming and intrusive as it was, it also ... well, it _was_ rather nice, wasn’t it? He thinks he wouldn’t have minded had it lasted longer, or even some further exploration.

But that chance has passed forever. The touch of Victor’s lips is only a faint memory. Swallowing around the heavy lump in his throat, he draws a shaky breath. Squaring his shoulder and putting on his most aloof, haughty expression, he steps into the kitchen. All four spin round to him. Victor’s face falls when he sees the look in Sherlock’s eyes. He drops his gaze, his features pale. He looks incredibly guilty.

“Sherlock, I can explain,” he begins, raising both hands in a placating gesture and his eyes to Sherlock’s. Sherlock glowers at him.

“Spare me your explanations, _Vic,_ ” he hisses contemptuously, his anger hot and his voice sharp and cutting. “I don’t want to hear them. What was this about, then? The wooing, the coffees, the ‘accidental’ meetings at the library and in town? See if you managed to interest the Freak enough to drag him to this party to seduce him in front of everybody and then ditch him publicly? For what? Money, yes, but also to win some clout with these morons here? Seriously? You’re making deals with _them_? How much was it worth, Victor? How much for you to overcome your obvious disgust and spend time with me? I do hope they’re still going to pay you for your troubles, and handsomely, too, even though you didn’t get into my pants if that was your intention. Perhaps your father shouldn’t have embezzled company money to invest in some shady business to leave you without your usual comfortable allowance. And you, Sebastian, and you two? What’s in it for you? Haven’t you bullied me enough already, spreading lies about me and discrediting me with the professors, accusing me of cheating and falsifying my exams? Always picking on those who are different, right? Because it’s easy? Because it makes you feel good about yourselves? You’re _nothing_ , all of you. You barely manage to scrape the marks you need to pass your exams. _You_ cheat whenever you can – don’t pretend you don’t. How much did mummy and daddy ‘donate’ to this institution to secure you a place here because neither of the three of you were smart or diligent enough to earn the required marks at school?”

Bending his gaze on Victor, he adds, “I liked you, you know. So, congratulations on fooling me into believing it was mutual. I won’t make that mistake again. Pity about the kiss, though.”

With that, he flees the party, ignoring Victor calling his name and even running after him. Pedalling like mad on his bicycle, Sherlock soon leaves him far behind and doesn’t look back. Victor attempts to contact him a few times afterwards, tries to apologise. But Sherlock blocks his email-address, deletes his phone number and burns his letters. He doesn’t want to see him anymore, nor hear an apology. He feels that he’s unjust, that perhaps he should give Victor the chance to explain. Victor mentioned money troubles, and it wasn’t just about his allowance, but the question whether he’d be able to continue at Cambridge.

But the hurt burns like a flame and consumes these more tempered feelings. Sherlock doesn’t want to be reminded of Victor at all if possible. It’s not as easy as simply destroying all evidence of their friendship, though. Try as he might, he can’t seem to delete Victor’s expression in the kitchen, the regret and remorse etched into his features. Deep down, Sherlock believes that Victor’s feelings for him were genuine, only to chide himself for clinging to this hopeless, hurtful sentiment. He catches himself imagining what might have happened without the reset. Would he and Victor have stayed together? Would the kissing have led to more? Would Victor have confessed eventually? Would Sherlock have forgiven him then?

It’s moot to imagine these things, though. Sherlock tells himself that breaking off all contact is for the best, that it wouldn’t have worked, anyway, between Victor and him, not after this kind of betrayal of trust. He is better off without friends, and of course without lovers, too. Neither are worth the trouble and potential heartbreak. He tells himself he’s fine.

He isn’t, though. He’s all but fine. Being different, being lonely has never been so obvious and weighed so heavily on him. He neglects his studies, spends days in his room scraping on his violin or conducting chemical experiments that lead nowhere. He can’t seem to gather his thoughts, can’t concentrate, can’t compose, can’t sleep, has even less appetite than usual. He feels torn between contacting Victor and at least listening to his story and trying to delete him completely. He starts to smoke to ward off the hunger he does feel. Even though he loathes the reek of smoke and the taste of cigarettes, the nicotine helps him think. He composes, he begins to collect different types of cigarette ash and writes a paper about their properties in the detection of crimes. One day when he does venture outside and into the lab, he encounters a group of grad students experimenting with spiders and the effects various drugs have on their net-spinning capabilities. The experiment is quite fascinating. Even more so is the cocaine Sherlock nicks from them. He reads up on the drug, decides against snorting it. He doesn’t throw it away, though. One evening when he is feeling particularly out of sorts, his cherished mind sluggish (probably from dehydration and lack of food), he mixes up a seven-percent solution and injects it into his arm.

It feels like a reset but of a different kind. His mind is on fire, incredibly fast. He can think again, feels alive. He knows about the dangers, of course. He tries to control how much he uses, calls it a habit, an occasional distraction. But of course, it doesn’t work like that. He manages to fool himself for a while, until he has to admit that the habit has become an addiction, and that he’s in trouble.

Cocaine is expensive. Sherlock’s small grant doesn’t cover these extra expenses, and he doesn’t want to ask his parents or – God forbid – Mycroft for more money. He steals cocaine from the lab, he tries to earn money with violin lessons and tutoring in chemistry and other subjects. But teaching slow, stupid people tears at his patience and fraying nerves. He feels more out of place than ever, knowing that he is smart, brilliant, even, but failing to see what to do with this extraordinary mind of his.

Somehow, he manages to graduate, but decides against pursuing a PhD. He moves to London, finds himself a dingy little room in a shared house, only to move out again two weeks later because the other people get on his nerves – and probably he on theirs, too. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, and, more importantly, how to earn money. London is expensive even without an addiction. He refuses Mycroft’s offer to help him find a better flat and a government job. He moves from run-down place to run-down place, until he more or less lives on the streets and in various boltholes he discovers during his long walks through London, desperately clinging to what remains of his independence and self-esteem. It’s not that his entire life revolves around cocaine and the next dose. He’s not fallen that far. But he knows he’s getting there, and the prospect scares him to no end. And yet he can’t stop, can’t see a way to turn his life around. He knows he needs help but is too proud to ask for it.

When his usual, reliable and discreet dealer is snatched by the police, Sherlock has to search for another provider of high-quality cocaine – he doesn’t touch the cut stuff that’s widely available on the streets or passed around in clubs and other venues. No, thank you, he’s not that desperate yet. Literally by accident, one evening when his stash has almost run out, he barely evades getting hit by a sports car while crossing a road near Knightsbridge Tube Station. The obviously wealthy driver stops, apologises, before inviting Sherlock for a ride – apparently mistaking him for a hooker. Sherlock deduces him in seconds, dismisses his interest in carnal pleasures as quite misguided, but recognises the man’s profitable business on the side right away. Oh yes, Mister Yellow Lamborghini deals with the good stuff. The problem is: Sherlock doesn’t have the money he’d need to acquire it. The man is open to accepting other currency, obviously, actually stating it as his preference, calling Sherlock gorgeous and sexy and regarding him as though he’s the most beautiful and, in this moment, important person in the world. Sherlock doesn’t feel he’s anything like that. He’s never felt desirable, apart from that brief moment when Victor kissed him and probably even meant it despite the bet and deceit. Nor has he ever truly felt appreciated, only when Redbeard ran to greet him every day after school.

Sherlock doesn’t want sex, though. He’s never really understood what’s supposed to be so great and important about it, or how people can be so unconcerned and careless who they have it with. When he is honest, the idea of this kind of intimacy, of making himself so vulnerable to a stranger, scares and downright disgusts him. Using sex to pay for his drug habit ... out of the question. The craving for cocaine isn’t that bad – yet. He hopes it never will be.

Nevertheless, the addiction calls to him. He knows the posh man in the posh car has got what he wants, and he is convinced he can get it even without having to resort to sexual services. Surely, he can ... persuade the man to part with some cocaine by deducing him and dropping a few threatening hints. He memorised the licence plate, could threaten to tell the police about the man’s shady business on the side. He gets into the car, confident in his skills, telling the driver he’s interested in a deal but prefers another form of payment.

However, Yellow Lamborghini doesn’t care about Sherlock’s misgivings about a casual shag, and what’s worse, he doesn’t ask nor wait for consent. He parks the car in a quiet street branching off Exhibition Road and suddenly his hands are everywhere. Sherlock begins to seriously panic. He normally knows how to defend himself, has excelled at fencing at Harrow and Judo and Bartitsu at Cambridge. But there is too little space in the car to move properly, and the doors are locked, and he hasn’t had a decent meal in days and feels a bit weak and faint because of it. The other man is strong _(runs and works out at a private gym)_ and much bulkier than Sherlock _,_ and his aftershave and grabby hands are overpowering and intrusive and seemingly everywhere at once, and Sherlock’s can’t move, and he can’t breathe, and now the other is trying to kiss Sherlock who manages to twist his head away. The man latches onto his throat, he sucks and then bites, and—

**> o<**

“Come here, gorgeous,” croons Yellow Lamborghini, pressing a button to recline Sherlock’s seat in the car and reaching out for Sherlock. This time, however, Sherlock is prepared. The reset has given him a boost of adrenaline. He waits until the other is looming over him, pressing close, then knees him in the groin. Hard. While the dealer doubles over, groaning and retching – Sherlock hopes he’ll puke all over his expensive leather seats – he quickly frisks him for cocaine and money, finds both, along with a brand new Siemens SX1, pockets them, unlocks the car and pulls out the keys, locks the car again from the outside and flees.

He runs all the way to the Albert Memorial, dropping the car keys into a storm drain on the way, and collapses on the northern side of the monument where he’s hidden from view from the road. With trembling fingers, he digs his own mobile phone out of his jacket pocket, only to gaze at it for several moments without making any move to dial. He was about to call the police, report an assault. But would they believe him? His experiences with the police don’t exactly inspire confidence. There were no witnesses. The man who attacked him is rich, a banker judging from his watch, shoes, clothes and fancy mobile phone, with influential friends and business partners. Because of the reset, Sherlock isn’t injured – thankfully. Also, he is in the possession of cocaine worth several grand.

So ... no police, at least not to report an assault. He _could_ report the man for reckless driving and moreover parking (rather permanently now because of the missing keys) in an absolute no parking zone. Smiling vindictively, he is about to dial when his mobile rings. He nearly drops it in shock, residual adrenaline making his hands tremble wildly. _Mycroft. Of course. Has got his eyes and ears all over the city._

Bracing himself, Sherlock takes the call. “What is it?” he asks archly.

“A bit of a narrow escape there, little brother. Has your unfortunate ‘habit’ become this pressing that you resort to offering certain services now to finance it?”

“If it were, it wouldn’t be your concern, nor should it interest or bother you with whom I have sex and for whatever reason.”

“I rather believe it would be my concern. Because I’d be the one to have to pick up the pieces. Not everything can be solved by your ... resets. The offer still stands, Sherlock. A mind like yours would be highly useful to the country – preferably before you completely wreck it with cocaine.”

“I don’t need your help and am certainly not interested in becoming a government marionette like you.”

“Sherlock—”

“Cease your incessant meddling, Mycroft. I am fine.”

“Are you really?”

Sherlock draws a deep breath, hating how shaky it still sounds and knowing that his brother will notice his agitation even through the phone. He runs a trembling hand through his hair. He craves a cigarette but hasn’t got any on him. The cocaine weighs heavy in his pocket, but it’s of course the wrong drug for his condition as it would make him even more edgy.

“I have it under control,” he mutters.

“I was talking about what happened in the yellow Lamborghini,” says Mycroft, an odd edge to his voice.

“Nothing happened – nothing you have to worry about. I managed to get out before it became ... unbearable. The car is locked, and the keys are gone. If you insist on being helpful, you could inform the police about the car and where it’s currently parked. Westminster council should be able to issue a hefty fine, and when they search it, they’ll probably find enough to convict the owner of dealing with Class-A drugs and other criminal activities.”

“ _You_ will leave the Class-A drug you are currently in possession of in the car I’m going to send round to fetch you.”

“Oh, will I?”

“Yes. It’s time to get clean, little brother, and you know it. There are facilities—”

“I don’t need your facilities. If I want to get clean, I will. Good night, Mycroft.”

He hangs up, leaning back against the stone steps and closing his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. He hates to admit it, but Mycroft is right. If he carries on with the cocaine, if he uses what he has just stolen, from here on, there’ll only be one way: down. But without the drug, the dreaded listlessness and boredom and feeling of not belonging will return. And there’d be withdrawal, and it wouldn’t be pleasant. If only he had something to replace the drug with. A purpose. A job. Anything.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdraws the packet of white powder, gazes at it. If he’s careful, if he portions it wisely, it’ll last him for months. He can function better with it, can keep the black dog at bay, can work on finding an occupation for himself that’ll keep his mind from tearing itself apart. Placing his attacker’s phone on the stones of the monument, he steps down and melts into the darkness under the trees of Hyde Park.

**– <o>–**

The cocaine lasts for almost five months. When his stash finally runs out and he’s back on the streets looking for more, two resets happen one shortly after another. Both nudge his life onto a new and more stable course. Off and on, he has helped people by using his skills at deduction. He has found lost property, missing pets, revealed cheating spouses and partners, even saved a man from going to prison for homicide by finding evidence that at the time of the murder, he was in a completely different part of town housebreaking. People insist on paying him for these services. It’s not enough to make a living yet. But it could be. It _could_ be a profession. And even though most of his clients are idiots who should be able to solve their own problems if only they used their brains, helping them gives him a boost of ... something. It gives his mind something to do, too, keeps it from imploding. He has always loved and excelled at solving riddles – the trickier, the better. And he’s always had a somewhat morbid fascination with crime. Also, even though he loathes to admit it, there is a certain sentimental aspect. Helping people is good. For about the first time in his life, Sherlock feels useful and valued and as though even he, as extraordinary and freakish and ill-adjusted as he might be, has a reason and place to exist in society.

The problem is the cocaine, of course. Addiction has dug its clutches deeply into his brain and doesn’t surrender easily. He tries to fight it, attempts a cold turkey withdrawal on his own. It’s hell, but he manages to get by without cocaine for more than two months. He smokes like a chimney during that time, tries to occupy himself with cases. He even contacts the Metropolitan Police, offers his help but doesn’t receive an answer.

Then addiction strikes back relentlessly. His meagre savings are soon used up. He becomes negligent when it comes to quality, takes some cut shit once (and too much of it), and ends up in a derelict building somewhere in the East End thinking he’s going to die. Mycroft finds him, sits with him during the miserable hours of coming down from the drug, assures him that he’s not going to die (yet), and that if he’s so bent on self-destruction, he should at least make a list of all the drugs he’s taken to make it easier for paramedics and the A&E staff to treat him. And then Mycroft triggers a reset by pressing two fingers to the mole on Sherlock’s throat. The switch back is just an hour, but enough for Sherlock to remember his brother’s words and make a list.

He wakes up in hospital, stays just long enough for his system to stabilise before he makes his escape. Every time before he injects cocaine now, he writes it down. He is carrying one of these (short) lists on him when he happens upon a crime scene in Clerkenwell. It’s murder, obviously. Oh, it’s so obvious, it really, really is. But neither the forensics team nor the harried-looking and prematurely grey-haired NSY Detective Sergeant nor the other Met officers milling about see it. The believe they’re investigating a suicide. Sherlock swans onto the crime scene, pretends to be plain-clothes officer from London City Police as the crime scene is just on the border between the City and the Borough of Islington. He manages to get a good look at the murder victim and even talk to the head of forensics before the Detective Sergeant is aware of him and takes him aside. Sherlock learns that his name is Lestrade, and that DS Lestrade has opinions about junkies impersonating police officers and intruding at crime scenes. Interestingly, though, Lestrade listens to what Sherlock has deduced about the murder. He does tell him to piss off and never pull a stunt like this again, but he also takes notes, asks Sherlock to come in the next day for a proper statement – despite probably knowing that Sherlock isn’t going to. When Sherlock is about to leave, Lestrade calls him back and hands him his card.

“Should you recall more about the case, call me,” he says. “You know, you could be a brilliant officer with a clever mind like yours – unless you wreck it with the drugs, of course. We could use you, even in a ... non-official capacity. A consultant, something like it. Think about it. And if you decide this could be something for you, call me, too. But get clean first. _Really_ clean. I’d need proof of rehab and all that. Without it, no chance, I’m afraid – which would be a real shame.”

Sherlock takes the card, draws his hood over his face and leaves. He doesn’t call Lestrade. But he does try to cut down on his drug use, tries to save money for a better, more professional looking wardrobe and begins to create a website which he calls _The Science of Deduction_. He’s going to be a consulting detective. Because Lestrade is right: he _has_ a brilliant mind and solving crimes in a non-official capacity could be exactly what he wants to do with his skills. Slowly, business picks up. He even gets to travel abroad, spends time in mainland Europe and the US. He helps a woman get permanently rid of her criminal, abusive husband in Florida and earns her deep and eternal gratitude. He is touched by it. She invites him to visit her in London where she owns a house.

Sherlock returns to the UK shortly afterwards but doesn’t call on Mrs. Hudson. Back in his usual haunts, it’s more difficult to ward off the tendrils of addiction reaching for him. He indulges more, hates himself for it. It’s more dangerous now because he’s got more money. His business is picking up, he solves more cases, interesting ones, too. He fashions an armour for himself of Irish tweed (a Belstaff greatcoat given to him by a happy client) and sleek suits, cold arrogance and unfiltered directness bordering on hurtfulness. He celebrates being a freak – _The_ Freak – and being different. He doesn’t care if people like him, as long as they fear his deductions. He builds a reputation of being something of an arsehole, albeit a brilliant one with observational skills bordering on magic. He revels in this status.

But with the highs come the lows, those times when there are no cases, when Sherlock wanders London on his own, the noise and visual cues and deductions they trigger almost overwhelming in their intensity. He has learned to cope with them over the years, but sometimes, they still get too much. People are the worst. That’s why he likes dead bodies so much, he reckons. They present information, too, but it’s easier to read than on their living counterparts because it doesn’t change and evolve all the time. Living people and particularly their emotions remain an unsolvable riddle to Sherlock, and he decides to stay away from them as much as he can, telling himself he isn’t lonely when in truth, he is.

Once more, cocaine becomes his friend. One evening just after shooting up he spots police cars from his window. Sherlock decides to investigate and following them stumbles upon another crime scene. It’s in Bloomsbury, not far from his little attic flat on Montague Street. Lestrade is on duty again. He recognises Sherlock. He allows him to have a look, listens to his rapid-fire deductions. Sherlock has just had a considerable dose – might have been a bit too much, in fact – of some really good cocaine, and he’s flying, deducing as though on autopilot. He’s also getting more and more agitated, feels his heart beating rapidly and his breaths becoming hunted pants. He has difficulties walking, sees things he isn’t sure are there, hears voices. The world is spinning, noise and lights and smells, all thundering in on him. He collapses next to Lestrade. The last thing he notices are two gloved fingers pressing against his carotid artery under the mole and—

**> o<**

He comes to in his flat, the syringe with the seven-percent solution in his hand, the tourniquet already cutting off circulation in his arm and letting his abused veins stand out against his pale skin. A police siren sounds outside, blueish light flickers into his room. He remembers the crime scene he just collapsed at before Lestrade switched him back. He remembers, vaguely, what must have been an overdose. He gazes at the syringe, the packet of white powder and the other utensils for preparing the cocaine next to it. He must have miscalculated. Worrying his lower lips with his teeth, he considers his options.

If he injects the cocaine, the chance is high he’ll OD indeed. It’s either hospital then, or ... well ... or a more final destination. And the switch ... it must have happened for a reason. It’s always been this way. It’s a warning. A chance to change things for the better. On the other hand, his addiction is real. He can already feel the beginnings of withdrawal setting in. If he doesn’t use the cocaine, he’s going to have an utterly miserable night and a tough few days to follow. And that’d only be the physical withdrawal. He’s tried cold turkey before. It didn’t work for long. To get clean and really remain so, he needs more than clients and cases to keep his mind occupied. He needs professional help.

Another siren sounds. Sherlock makes up his mind. The crime did look fascinating. Double murder, no obvious clues or suspects. Squeezing half of the contents of the syringe into the loo, he injects the rest. It’ll keep him functional to help Lestrade and then decide how to proceed. Later that night, after solving the case right at the scene of the crime, he sells his remaining stash of cocaine to his dealer (apart from a small dose for true emergencies, which he hides in his flat), tells her that he’s leaving and won’t be needing her services any longer. With the drug money and what meagre savings he has, he books himself a place at a private rehab facility.

**– <o>–**

Rehab is horrible. The boredom almost kills him – at least it feels that way. He makes the mistake of trying to quit cocaine and smoking at the same time. It’s an utter nightmare. Thankfully, another inmate suggests trying out nicotine patches to counteract the worst cravings. Sherlock finds them helpful, uses more than he should, but at least his lungs recover, and the patches keep him from relapsing.

When he has spent a month at the facility and has, slowly, been making progress, a surprise visitor shows up. It’s a recently created Detective Inspector Lestrade with a large envelope full of cold cases. Sherlock is delighted. He knows of course who informed the DI of his current whereabouts. Mycroft himself hasn’t visited yet, nor have Sherlock’s parents, but there is no doubt Mycroft knows where he is and what he’s been doing.

He solves the cases in under three days, asks for more, which Lestrade provides gladly. When another month later he checks himself out, he is confident that he’ll manage. Lestrade has promised he could soon be involved in active cases, there are clients asking for his services. Not everybody at the Met is happy about his interference. He hears the dreaded F-word again, almost as frequently as back at school. He tells himself he doesn’t care, steels himself against scorn and jealousy with haughty expressions and cutting deductions. He knows he doesn’t have to be popular. Being feared and grudgingly respected is enough. He works and works and works, spending as little time as possible in his small flat, always aware of what’s hidden there. He realises he needs a bigger, more respectable looking abode if he wants to meet private clients. He can’t expect them to leg it up several flights of stairs to his cramped, dingy attic on Montague Street.

Accidentally, he runs into Mrs. Hudson again who coos and kisses him on his hollow cheeks and offers him a flat in her house on Baker Street. The rooms are perfect. The rent is surprisingly cheap, too (a special rate from Mrs. Hudson, no doubt), although a little above his current budget. At Barts Hospital where he has successfully charmed the mortician into allowing him the use of the lab and the odd spare body-part for experimental purposes, one morning he talks with one of the doctors, Mike Stamford, mentions his dilemma about needing a flatmate while wondering at the same time who in their right mind would want to share a flat with him, and, more importantly, who _he’d_ tolerate sharing quarters with.

Returning from his lunch break, Stamford visits him in the lab, bringing with him the perfect candidate. In retrospect, Sherlock isn’t sure whether he falls in love with John right away, or whether it takes another day, a chase, a shot and a late Chinese dinner. But fall he does. He doesn’t realise what’s going on at first. It takes some getting used to suddenly having a flatmate – and what’s more, a friend.

What follows are the best, the happiest eighteen months of Sherlock’s life. There are no resets. Then comes Moriarty, a Fall, a return to a changed London and a changed John first with a fiancée, then with a wife and a child on the way. Sherlock wishes for a reset to the time before his fateful jump from Barts’ roof. Only two happen, and they only switch him back shorter periods, never long enough to undo the Fall. One is in Serbia where after being captured and tortured, he stages an ill-fated escape attempt and is shot through the throat. Instead of bleeding out, he finds himself back in chains two days earlier and decides not to risk a second attempt. Shortly afterwards, Mycroft shows up in disguise to rescue him and bring him back to London.

The second reset he barely remembers. It appears to happen after Mary shoots him in the chest and he lies on the floor of Magnussen’s office bleeding out. John resets him there accidentally by feeling for his heartbeat at his throat, somehow buying them more time for the ambulance to arrive and for the paramedics, with John’s help, to stabilise him long enough for transport to the nearest hospital.

**– <o>–**

And now he’s back at Barts because he and John had pursued a murderer who had caught Sherlock and tried to strangle him. Back at Baker Street, John had insisted on checking Sherlock’s throat and the bruises forming there. He had carefully run his fingers over the mole, accidentally wiping away eight years of their life together. They only exist in Sherlock’s mind palace now. Rosie is gone, probably forever. She may never be born now.

And yet ... here is John, wonderful, perfect John, with his psychosomatic limp and his walking-stick, his military short hair and tan lines and the checked shirt ... Perhaps this is indeed a second chance. It must be. Sherlock clings to the notion. Something went wrong and needs to be put right or at least improved. Here’s his chance. And maybe – and he doesn’t want to hope but does, fervently – maybe it’s a chance to finally get what he really wants: not just John’s admiration and friendship, but his love.

He looks up from the microscope, recalling the words from eight years ago that set everything in motion.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

––––––––––

The illustration for this chapter can be found [here](http://anke.edoras-art.de/images/sherlock_fanfic/sherlock_rewind_chapter1.jpg).

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr and Twitter. I’m khorazir on both.


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